Universally Monstrous - The Hunchback of Notre Dame
by darnedchild
Summary: "The Quasimodo Killer?" Sherlock scoffed. "Really, John. That's the best you could do?" - It's Sherlolly Halloween. This year I'm playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.


**A/N -** It's Sherlolly Halloween. This year I'm playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.

 **Universally Monstrous**

 **The Hunchback of Notre Dame**

"The Quasimodo Killer?" Sherlock scoffed. "Really, John. That's the best you could do?"

John leaned back from his laptop and glared at his friend. "He leaves his victims in church bell towers."

"Mmm." Sherlock shook his head and dropped into his chair with a disappointed huff. "Fairly short-sighted signature for a budding serial killer. There are only so many bell towers in the area."

"Yet you still haven't managed to catch him." John returned to pecking at his keyboard like a frustrated bird as he continued to work on a rough draft for what would eventually turn into a blog post once the case was solved. "Six victims in eleven days and then nothing for a week. Maybe he's moved on. If he is still around, I hope he holds off for another day or two. I'm supposed to take Rosie to a fancy-dress party with her play group tonight."

Sherlock deliberately closed his eyes and steepled his fingers against his lips, a silent signal that he was done talking.

Seconds later an icy chill ran down his spine and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Fancy dress?"

John nodded without looking up. "Yeah, I know. She's three, seems a little young to be going full out already; but one of the mom's is really into the whole party organizing thing, and Rosie picked out a unicorn costume with the most ridiculous sparkly rainbow mane."

"What day is it? The date."

John frowned at the urgent tone from his friend. "October 31st. Halloween."

Sherlock sprung from his chair and scrambled to the window to glance at the sky. "It's nearly sunset. Where is Rosie now?"

"One of the other playgroup moms offered to take her to one of those kid friendly beauty salon places before the party. You know, paint the nails and curl the hair, a little lip gloss, pamper the girls and call them princess." John's expression darkened even more.

The Consulting Detective pulled his mobile off the desk where it had been charging and began to pull up his contact list. "Call the mom, confirm she's still with Rosie."

"Sherlock?" John reached out and grabbed his friend's arm as he passed. "What is it?"

"Something's off. Something … feels off. Just call, John."

"Yeah, all right." John set his laptop aside and took his phone into the kitchen.

The first text was sent to Molly.

 **Let me know if anything interesting comes through the morgue tonight? Bored.**

The next went to Lestrade.

 **Any updates on the bell tower murders?**

The third was short and terse, and went to Mycroft.

 **Status?**

Then Sherlock stood at the edge of the landing and loudly called down the stairs. "Mrs Hudson?"

He actually held his breath for the forty seconds it took to hear the sound of shuffling footsteps approach the door of the flat below. The door creaked open and Mrs Hudson answered, "Sherlock?"

For just a moment, Sherlock allowed himself to slump against the wall in relief. _That's one._

"Sherlock, did you need something?" Mrs Hudson called out again.

"Tea." He pushed away from the wall and pictured the way Molly's lips had pursed in disapproval when she'd heard him shout the same thing last time she'd come to visit. He leaned toward the stairs again. "Please."

His mobile pinged as he moved back into his sitting room. Lestrade had replied.

 **You mean Quasimodo? Nothing new here. Do you have something?**

 _That's two_.

He sent something noncommittal in reply and joined John in the kitchen. "Rosie?"

John held up his finger, nodding as if the person he was speaking to on the phone could see him. "Really? Sounds like she's enjoying herself. Thanks again, Marcy." He hung up and turned to face Sherlock.

"She's getting a pedi, whatever that entails. I could hear her giggling in the background."

 _Three._

While he should have been feeling relieved with each consecutive check-in, Sherlock found himself becoming more and more tense. The inexplicable feeling of dread continued to grow.

A full two minutes later his mobile pinged again. An equally terse reply from Mycroft.

 **Status of what?**

 _Four_ , Sherlock thought. He ignored his brother and continued to wait for one last reply.

"Care to tell me what's going on?" John nodded toward Sherlock's phone.

"I don't know. Not for certain. It's just a feeling. An instinct. Something's off, John. I can't put my finger on it, not yet."

John nodded. "Yeah, all right. So what's next?"

Sherlock stared at his phone, as if he could will it to emit the soft little trill that signalled Molly's texts with the force of his thoughts. "I'm waiting for one more reply. Where is she?"

"She?" John blanched. "Molly."

"Obviously Molly," Sherlock huffed. "Who else would-"

The mobile trilled.

Sherlock's relief was extremely short lived.

It was Molly's number, but he immediately knew the text hadn't been written by his pathologist.

 **Ding dong, Mr Holmes.**

 **Do I have your attention?**

 _Ding dong. Bells. The bell tower murderer._

"Of course. That's why he's been quiet the last week. He's been biding his time until tonight. How cliché."

"You're kidding." John was suddenly at his side, trying to get a better look at the screen. "What the hell is Quasimodo doing with Molly's phone?"

"I don't know, perhaps his was dead and Molly simply loaned him hers." Sherlock glared at the other man.

Even knowing it was mostly like a futile endeavour, he did ask about Molly. Ask expected, the bell tower murderer ignored his question.

 **Time to end this cat and mouse silliness.**

 **I'll send a time and place later this evening. If you wish to see your friend in one piece ever again, you will be on time. Come alone, Mr Holmes. I'll know if you don't.**

He tried texting back several times, demanding to know where Molly was and if she was okay. No reply.

"You're not going alone," John insisted.

"Obviously. Once I have the location and time, you'll contact Lestrade and meet me there." Sherlock kept his expression as neutral as possible, even as he lied. There was no way he was going to allow John or any member of the Yard to put Molly's life at risk. "Shouldn't you be arranging for someone else to take your daughter to her party tonight?"

"Oh, God, yeah. Right. Maybe Mrs Hudson, she'll understand." John hurried down the stairs and Sherlock immediately grabbed his Belstaff.

He slipped through the front door as soon as he was sure John was busy with Mrs Hudson. He stayed in the general area of Baker Street. The bell tower murderer would most likely base his meeting time off the assumption that Sherlock was waiting at home; if he travelled too far in the wrong direction, he might not arrive at the appointed time.

It was just after eleven thirty when his mobile trilled. The message simply said five to midnight and an address.

Sherlock reviewed the street maps in his head and compared them to the average traffic patterns for that time of night. It would be close.

 **If you're late she will die.**

For one brief moment he considered alerting John, then shook his head and set off at a run down the nearly empty sidewalk. There wasn't time to catch a cab and hope for the best.

He found the condemned church with two minutes to spare. The front door was cracked open, saving him from needing to find a way to break in. The interior was dark except for a few lit tealights that had been left like a trail of breadcrumbs leading him to a set of stairs.

To the bell tower.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time until he reached the small room that housed the disused church bell. The room was open to the night on all four sides. It was obvious that the bell had been purely decorative for the last few years that the church had been in operation. The chimes would have come from a recording, the partially ripped out wiring in the ceiling would have belonged to speakers.

And there, huddled on the floor behind the bell, was Molly.

He wanted to rush to her side and pull her into his arms to shield her from the cold night air, but he needed to remain on alert while he looked for the man who had already murdered six people. Sherlock eased around the bell and knelt by her side, keeping his gaze moving as he peered into every shadow.

Her head lifted at the endearment. He chanced glancing down at her, needing to confirm she was going to be all right.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was thin and soft, and her eyes were wet with tears.

"I'm here, sweetheart. Can you tell me where he went, how long has he been gone?" Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Finding Molly had been easy, far too easy. An obvious trap, but how would it be sprung.

"I never left, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He'd expected the words to come from the shadows, not from the small woman at his side. Her tone was firmer than before, harsher. Her expression twisted into something malevolent and cold.

"Molly?"

Molly grimaced. "She's quite stubborn. Didn't want to give up control, none of them really ever do, but she's been more of a pain than the others." Molly pushed Sherlock away with almost superhuman strength. He slid across the floor and into the balustrade opposite hard enough to hear something crack and knock the air from his lungs.

He huffed and rolled to his knees.

She rose to her feet and tilted her head to look down at him. "I wasn't sure you'd come. You didn't seem like the sentimental type the last time we met."

Sherlock pulled himself up, using the railing for support. Judging from the sharp pain, he may have broken a rib. "Met?"

"Minsk. Belarus. You weren't very polite, Mr Holmes. Leaving me there, in that prison, to hang for my wife's murder." Molly shook her head and tsked. "It's okay though. Gave me a chance to meet some old friends of yours on the other side."

"Friends?" Sherlock searched the bell tower, looking for anything he could use to defend himself. Although, when the time came, he wasn't sure he'd be able to bring himself to hurt her. No matter what was going—Spirits did not exist and people did not get possessed by the ghosts of vengeful ex-clients, did they?—she was still his Molly.

"You're a popular man, Mr Holmes. You've made lots of people very, very angry. They'll be so jealous when they realize I found a way back."

Sherlock tugged on the railing, testing to see if it was loose enough he could pull part of it free to use as a club. "And how did you manage that, Bernard?"

"Berwick!" Molly growled. "It's easy enough, when the time is right and you know the path. Found a priestess who wanted to visit her family. Took her place and crossed over instead. And now, after I take over you and kill your friend, I'll be able to stay. Fitting revenge, don't you think?"

 _'_ _I'll be able to stay.' There's the clue._

"And if you don't kill her?" The railing didn't have much give, but the harder he pulled the more it creaked.

"Then I kill you. It doesn't matter as long as the seventh dies before the last stroke of midnight. This isn't the body I would have chosen, but it's better than nothing. Who knows, I may learn to enjoy myself, she's pretty enough." Molly leered and reached up to cup her own breasts.

Sherlock hissed, "Don't you touch her."

Molly threw back her head to laugh and Sherlock made his move. He launched himself toward her, hoping to knock her down, but she was much more solid than she looked. She fought back and he found himself on the floor with her body holding him down.

Impossibly, the rusted church bell began to sway and a phantom clapper struck the side.

 _Midnight!_

For one brief moment, the face above his softened and Molly was once again looking at him. "He's panicking. Run, Sherlock."

He reached up to touch her cheek as the bell continued to ring out. "I can't. I won't. I love you."

Her head fell to his chest and he heard her sob, but when she lifted it again it was Berwick's eyes that stared back at him. "Touching, but pointless."

Molly's hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. Sherlock thrashed underneath her, trying to throw her off even as part of his mind counted off the bell's strikes. His vision began to grow dark at ten.

Then he was free, free to draw in air.

Molly was on her knees at his side, hands pressed against her head and her face twisted in pain. "No, no! I won't let you do it!"

The eleventh stroke rang out.

She glared at Sherlock and snarled, "Stupid bitch won't stay down. I'm out of time, Holmes, but don't think you've won. There's always next year." She collapsed as the bell rang one final time.

Sherlock crawled to her side and rolled her over. She was breathing, which was a good sign. "Molly. Molly, sweetheart. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes opened and he sobbed in relief. "Is he gone?" she asked.

"For now."


End file.
